


I'm Quiet, You Know

by Aanon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe: Physical Contact as Replacement for Food, Bucky With The Good Hair, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Hurt/Comfort: The Fanfic, Identity Porn: Sorta, Long and therapeutic roadtrip, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, Rating may go up in later chapters, Silent Winter Soldier (for the first half of the story), Slow Burn, Touch Starved Steve Rogers, Touch Starved Winter Soldier, Touch starvation as literal starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21546742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aanon/pseuds/Aanon
Summary: Steve is pulled out of retirement when S.H.I.E.L.D. apprehends the Winter Soldier, a genetically enhanced being capable of sapping other people’s energy through touch.Or: AU where physical contact with another individual replaces eating as humanity’s main source of caloric intake and Steve and Bucky are touch-starved. Comes with a long road trip to recovery and a hint of identity porn.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 129





	1. Encounter

Wednesday morning started with a chopper landing a few yards away from Steve’s little cabin in the woods. Although, Steve thought morosely, _morning_ was quite generous a term, considering the pitch-black sky had only just begun showing pinkish fissures on the horizon. A quick glance at his pocket watch revealed… that it was just as broken as it had been for the past year and Steve has not had nearly enough sleep for whatever _this_ business with the S.H.I.E.L.D emblazoned chopper was. As far as he knew, _retirement_ was generally treated as final, a clean break with work till death came to collect him. Clearly, his former employers had either not gotten the memo or the entire organisation fueled on separation anxiety.

Steve reluctantly cracked open his door just as the engines of the copter were blessedly turned off. A shadow of a figure was walking toward him, radiating confidence and leadership from his strut alone. Steve leaned against his door frame and crossed his arms in retaliation, because he was not above pettiness, not after being startled awake at an ungodly hour on an otherwise perfectly fine weekday. And intimidation through body language was rule number one for deterrence in his experience. If he flexed hard enough, Fury might just materialize out of existence.

Steve sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He _definitely_ needed that extra four hours of sleep if he could kid himself about Fury changing his mind once it was set.

“Captain Rogers,” his former boss said in that deep, confident, and mildly irritating baritone of his.

“Fury,” Steve wanted to say in a level voice, but it really came out sounding like a groan, the likes a petulant child would make after being grounded for sneaking a cookie from the kitchen jar.

“I would ask if you had received my message yesterday warning you about this visit, but I now see you’ve missed the stop for the 1940s and shot yourself right back to the Stone Age.”

“Very funny--"

"I know it was."

"...but you've definitely not flown all the way here for small talk. The sooner we cut to the chase the sooner I can go back to emulating the caveman of your dreams.”

Fury lifted a brow at the above-average amount of sass this morning, an impressive feat considering he usually demonstrated the emotional range of a brick wall. “Well. Never thought I’d see the day you would become weighed down by apathy, _Captain._ ”

...and yes, Fury was still capable of pushing every single one of his buttons with pinpoint accuracy.

“With all due respect, sir, what do you want from me?”

“Remember that mission Widow began in Siberia, three months before your leave?”

“I wasn't on _leave,_ Fury, I asked for _retirement_ after we took care of the aliens _.”_

“Well, it turns out the ghost story she was chasing, the Winter Soldier, actually exists. And he’s now in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody.”

“And this concerns me how?”

Fury straightened up, staring Steve down with an expression approximating excitement shining in his eyes. “Well, it took fifteen of our strongest agents --dressed head-to-toe in thermoset body armor mind you-- to contain him for a total of thirty eight seconds. Do you know why, Rogers? He’s genetically modified, just like you, but his strength comes in his capacity to sap others of their energy. Nobody who isn't dressed in army-grade insulated gear can touch him for more than a few minutes before passing out from being sucked _dry_.”

“That’s… genetically impossible,” Steve said, surprised and intrigued despite himself. Charging was an automatic procedure in which all connected parties shared the caloric product they generated equitably between their bodies. It was the basic laws of physics. Steve didn't need to have a PhD in electromagnetism or thermodynamics under his belt to tell this much.

But his boss knew how to get him hooked on a mission, and Steve... god, Steve was _not_ about to be cajoled back into becoming a mindless weapon or worse, a _power bank_ to fuel other weapons _._

“If we are going to be technical about it, neither would _you_ be genetically possible, Captain," Fury retorted with a raised eyebrow.

And fair enough. Steve was a definite outlier. But that had been the result of experimental science and genetic modification. Dr. Erskine had been a genius and Steve hadn't exactly interrogated him on the contents of his serum before volunteering. The situation was urgent, Bucky had left for the front without him, and he really hadn't been in the mindset to care about science of things as long as his new body _worked_.

Fury continued. "Look at it this way: whereas you have been made to somehow be capable of... turning your own turbines and optimizing your energy efficiency, the Winter Soldier's body does the exact opposite. He burns through calories to maintain his inhumane speed and strength, but the process isn't efficient so he needs to charge often. Except, charging to full capacity takes time, so somewhere in there he's managed to find a way to speed it up by hogging all generated resources, sucking others dry.”

"And what does that have to do with me?"

Fury leaned forward into Steve’s space and lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if they were discussing state secrets smack dab in middle Times Square rather than here, off the deep end of Buttfuck-Nowhere, Shelbyville. “I’m sure you can envision how much of an asset the Winter Soldier would be, if we can reform him.”

Steve blinked.

Surely this wasn’t Fury’s punchline, because it had the exact opposite effect to the one his boss intended. “In case I haven’t made it clear, sir, I _do not care a wink_ for the future of S.H.I.E.L.D. and do not intend to be manipulated into creating more soldiers for it.”

His boss stood back up to his full height. “I had a conversation with Sam Wilson the other day. Turns out one reason for your self-imposed seclusion was your incapacity to find touch pleasant in this century,” he said nonchalantly.

Steve growled. “What did you threaten him with--” 

“The point of the matter is, Captain, that the Soldier is starving, _has been starving_ for some odd seventy years at the hands of his previous handlers. He is an energy hog and they clearly did not have enough resources to keep him fed. But thanks to the serum, _we do_. Given you generate your own energy, you are theoretically the only human capable of withstanding a charge with him. If, after realizing that S.H.I.E.L.D. can offer him a better lifestyle, he decides to join us, then it would mean one more international threat contained. All without having shed any blood. Is this not what you’ve always striven for, Captain? A diplomatic resolution to conflict?”

Steve despised the fact that he was hooked in spite of himself. He had worked hard during his thirteen months of retirement to cultivate apathy for this familiar yet alien world… and, predictably, he had failed, spectacularly so. It was just not in his nature to remain passive when others needed help. Bucky had always said that a well-crafted sob story got him riled up for days. 

He was not going back without a fight though. “You could just incarcerate him and establish a rotation of people he can feed off of, I know S.H.I.E.L.D.'s got the resources for it,” Steve proposed with a shrug he hoped looked convincing. “And considering the international crimes he committed, the Winter Soldier isn’t exactly prime candidate for pardon.”

“That logic is flawed, Captain, and you know it. Incarceration will only lead to the Soldier rebelling and finding ways to escape before we can even reason with him. And I do not believe I have spoken of pardon, but _atonement,_ and he cannot do that without trusting S.H.I.E.L.D. to provide him with the energy necessary for him to maintain _basic functionality.”_

“You have enough personnel for him to charge with,” Steve fired back, a little desperate now.

“If you mean we have a lot of young agents willing to faint once a day to stay within the ranks, then yes--”

“ _Fine_ ,” Steve snapped, a deep, bone-chilling sound of resignation. “I will meet with him. But I am _not_ signing any contracts with S.H.I.E.L.D. and I reserve the right to walk out at any point of this process.”

“Of course, Captain.”

He was sure the corners of Fury’s lips lifted a fraction as he gestured toward his ride. Steve reluctantly followed after his on-again-off-again boss, even as he lamented the manipulative assholes that ran S.H.I.E.L.D.

And, if he was honest, there was some righteous fury directed at himself for being incapable of staying silent and passive in the face of _anything._

* * *

Steve did not mean to fall asleep the second he sat down on the leather cushions, but his sound-attenuating headsets blended the _woosh_ of the rotor to the _hum_ of the engine, creating a harmony that had become familiar since his time at the front. He had his shield strapped securely in one arm, the weight of it and the swaying of the chopper slowly but surely soothing him into slumber. It was probably telling that neither the sunlight filtering through the windows nor the communications in the cockpit managed to wake him. The fatigue that plagued him was more than just physical, and while his body chose to escape it all by shutting down for a few hours, the existential malaise that never left him since he was thawed weighed him down in ways that sleep could not remedy.

He dreamed of Bucky. 

All of a sudden, it was the fall of 1937 again, and his best friend was sitting cross-legged in their bed blowing smoke out the window and soaking up the faint sunlight like a cat. Steve remembered admiring the glow of his skin in the early morning light and the shift of the muscles at his back, his fingers itching to capture Bucky’s silhouette on paper but resenting the idea of relinquishing the warmth of the bed covers. He scooted closer until some part of him was touching Bucky and, startled, his friend pinched his arm in retaliation. 

“Patience, Steve. I’m almost done. I’ll shut the pane and act as your personal heater in a bit.”

“C’mon Buck, ‘m starved.”

“Geez, cool it, pal. Some days, I think you only want me for my body,” Bucky complained with fondness in his voice and a big grin splitting his face.

“Only ‘cause I’m allergic to practically everyone else’s touch. You think I _chose_ to be saddled with your ugly mug?” Steve sassed back, one hand finding Bucky’s wrist and tugging.

“Way to make a man feel special…” Bucky snubbed his cigarette in the ashtray on their windowsill and pushed the glass panel down. He lifted the covers and immediately gathered Steve in his arms. “Y’know, I’ll never understand how you can have your icy feet touch me the entire night and still wake up ravenous.”

Steve shrugged. “Perk of being born with every ailment and allergy known to man. What’s one more biological inefficiency to add to the list? I charge _really_ slow is all.”

Bucky has his face buried in Steve’s hair and his arms around Steve’s shoulders and waist. He was a _phenomenal_ charging partner and a part of Steve hated that this was a tried-and-true fact for most of the neighborhood. Bucky was compatible with pretty much _everyone_ and was naturally tactile, a combination that had half their acquaintances dying to drape themselves all over him. Steve buried his face in Bucky’s chest and gripped him tighter. He knew he might not be Bucky’s favourite for much longer.

“I hear cogs grinding…” Bucky hummed. “If you think any harder you might hurt yourself, buddy.”

“Jerk,” Steve said, punctuating it with a soft kick to his thigh.

Steve loved being held while Bucky laughed. The deep rumble and the shaking of it lulling him into a safe and comfortable headspace. 

“Rogers.”

The sound was gone. Steve blinked awake. The engines had shut off, the seats were no longer swaying in space. They had landed.

“I need you to pull yourself together. The Winter Soldier is an enhanced weapon, and I do not care for scraping your body parts off the floor should you let your guard down in his presence.”

Steve shook the last vestiges of the dream away and heaved himself up the way he did so often back in ‘44. It was easy, surprisingly easy, to revert back to the mindset of a soldier in a war zone. He secured the shield on his arm and stood to his full height. “I’m ready.”

* * *

The containment room was commissioned from Stark Industries and advertised to be Hulk-proof. From the security feed, Steve could see the soldier suspended a little above the ground, all four of his limbs and his midsection strapped in place so he was spreadeagled. While the contraption might have been handy in preventing escape, since the Soldier could not leverage his weight as easily without something to ground him, it looked like a torture device straight out of a horror movie. The soldier’s mouth was muzzled with a black mask.

“What the _hell,_ Fury!” Steve bellowed, a sound that made more than one agent stationed around the site jump.

“It’s not hurting him, so tone that righteous fury down, Captain,” his boss shot back. “He was trying to pull his own skin apart with that metal arm, so we had to find a way to subdue him. And before you ask, yes, that mask was there when we found him, no we do not have the means to remove it."

Steve was sure the room was soundproof, yet the commotion seemed to have awakened the soldier, who lifted his head a fraction, giving them a glimpse of his steel grey eyes over the high-tech security feed.

Steve’s heart skipped a beat for no reason.

But an instinctual and illogical part of him whispered: _compatible_.

“I’m going in,” he declared.

Immediately, the SWAT team circled the entrance to the confinement room, as if they expected the starving soldier to miraculously escape his binds and burst his way out of a prison so reinforced it could give the Hulk a run for his money. Steve ignored them and forcibly peeled the heavy metal doors open after hearing the locks disengage on Fury's order. 

The room inside felt slightly cooler than normal, and once the doors were shut it was, as Steve suspected, completely soundproof. The air smelled sterile, and the clank of his boots on the metal ground made such a full sound that any mildly intelligent individual would think twice before attempting to punch their way out.

As Steve got closer, he could hear the muffled, shallow breathing of the man being held captive. The plates in his metal arm whirred and shifted to the sound of Steve’s footsteps. Icy blues peeked from underneath the curtains of his messy brown hair, the Soldier’s gaze following Steve’s every movement with weariness. At arm’s length, Steve could see the grey and haggard quality of his skin, a sign of extreme malnourishment. The Winter Soldier might not have properly charged for months, if not years.

The Soldier’s left arm shifted ever so slightly when he saw Steve’s shield, the minuscule movement causing the chain he was suspended upon to jingle in the otherwise quiet room.

Steve bit his lip and took a gamble. He unstrapped the shield and kicked it to the far end of the room. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, opening his empty palms as proof.

The Winter Soldier stilled.

“I’m Steve Rogers, or, well, Captain America. You might already know this, but I’m also genetically enhanced. My body can store and generate a _lot_ of energy _very_ fast, so I was called in to help you.”

When there was no reply, or even any indication that the Soldier understood him, Steve decided to swallow his insecurities and forge on. “I heard that when you charge, you take other people’s energy instead of sharing the product, because of how fast your body burns calories. In that case, I might come in handy, since my body optimizes energy production and consumption to that of my charging partner’s. I generate my own energy. It might… make you feel better if you allowed me to touch you.”

Silence.

Steve took a deep breath and tried to remain as calm as possible. If he showed any signs of agitation, the Soldier might read it as aggression and things would devolve quickly from there. Steve slowly lifted one gloved hand in front of him, making sure everything was within the Soldier’s eyesight. “Here, can I just put this hand on your right arm, to see if we are on the same wavelength? If it feels unpleasant, you can jerk away or tell me no, and I will stop immediately.”

Still nothing, no indication of comprehension. Steve really _really_ did not want to force the matter, but it was increasingly looking like he would have to take liberties. “Please, let me help you. I… this might not mean anything, and you have every reason not to trust me, but I am not with S.H.I.E.L.D. and do not owe them anything. I used to be this scrawny kid that was mildly-to-deathly allergic to touch from almost everyone, so I know how miserable an existence it can be to be unable to engage in physical contact with others…”

His soliloquy was cut short. The Winter Soldier had closed his eyes and hung his head, the perspiration on his skin beading and sliding down his cheek to splatter on the cold metal ground. It a sign so deep with resignation Steve’s blood immediately began to boil. This was not a willing soldier out there killing for fun or fighting for some greater cause. This was a man tortured again and again, cracked open until he lost any capacity to fight back and just resigned himself to being told what to do. The rage that Steve had tried to suppress in his short-lived retirement resurfaced with a vengeance. This was torture the likes no man should ever experience, starved inside-out to the point of wishing for death. He was going to help, whether the assassin deserved it or not, because Steve _could_ and nobody was made to be tormented this way.

He made sure to project his movement, but even with all the mental preparation, he could not have anticipated the feeling that would spark when they collided.

Even over his leather gloves and the Soldier’s tac gear, the connection was electric and disorienting. Steve was lost in the sensation until the muscles underneath his palm suddenly spasmed, prompting Steve to instinctively jerk away. “S-sorry, was that too much?” he blurted, trying to process what just happened.

The Soldier was thrashing now, yanking at the chains that restrained him in an attempt to escape. His uneven breathing echoed across the silent room.

Steve felt his heartbeat pick up. “What’s wrong? Hey, hey, talk to me. Was my wavelength revolting? I- it wasn’t for me, so I thought-- Do you want me to leave? Should I call in doctors?”

Steve wasn’t sure amid the clanging of the metal binds, but he might have heard a small whimper.

“Alright, no doctors! Here. Let me…” he quickly amended, taking off his glove and pushing his palm toward the Soldier’s arm again, watching intently to see if the other displayed any signs of resistance. When he was reasonably sure there was none, Steve gently laid the tip of his fingers on top of the black tac gear.

The connection was immediate and stronger than it should be, given the layers of clothes inhibiting the current.

And even muffled, it felt _really good._

God, Steve hadn’t properly touched anyone in so long, the serum having completely negated his need to charge. And then S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided to manipulate him and...

Steve shook his head. He had to _focus._ A glance at the Soldier revealed that his pupils were blown wide, a sign of compatibility that assuaged Steve’s fear of hurting him. Slowly, he laid his palm flat on the Soldier’s forearm, biting his lip at the familiarity of it all. He’d never truly found someone that matched his wavelength the way Bucky did, but this was pretty damn close. He shifted his palm up the Soldier’s bicep to his shoulders, and felt a tremor travel through his partner’s body. He could visibly see some color returning to the Soldier’s skin through his cheeks, even with such a contained circuit. And even better, despite physically _feeling_ the Soldier sucking up his energy reserves, Steve felt pretty confident he could sustain the contact between them without running out. 

“That’s enough.”

The muscles underneath his palm immediately tensed, and Steve pulled away to see Fury and a team of fully-armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents at the door. “The Winter Soldier's body has been starved for the better part of a century, if you charge him any longer he might actually keel over and die,” Fury said, as his SWAT team surrounded the room.

Steve did not know what compelled him to put his back to the Soldier but he did, standing as a shield between Fury and their prisoner. “And intimidation tactics will help us how, exactly?”

“Now that he has regained some energy, he is more dangerous than ever. We cannot have the Soldier escape.”

As if on cue, there was a thud behind him and Steve turned to see the Winter Soldier magically divested of all his binds, prompting a dozen or so guns to immediately point to him. Steve was somehow still alive and not in a chokehold though, so the Soldier most likely did not intend to eliminate him, at least not yet. Interestingly, he did not seek to renew their physical contact either, standing alert and poised for a fight. Physically, he looked mildly better than when Steve first entered the room, but on second glance Steve could see his legs were shaking, barely holding him upright.

But if it's true that the Soldier was genetically modified like Steve, there was no doubt he could still put up a decent fight even on the brink of collapse. It looked like the possibility of a violent confrontation just skyrocketed now that he was no longer restrained and half-dead, and given the guns and the airtight environment, a fight certainly did not paint a very attractive picture. Steve could smell the sweat rolling off the back of the SWAT team. “Fury, you of all people should know firing in a confined metal room is a recipe for disaster.”

“We will all calmly leave the room if the Soldier kneels and puts his arms behind his head,” the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. retorted. “If he agrees to voluntary confinement until we can assess his physical and mental stability, nobody gets hurt, and the Captain will make sure he never starves again.”

There was no movement behind him. Steve was about to speak up when, extraordinarily, the guns aimed away from the Soldier and pointed to him.

“Or,” Fury said slowly, this time addressing his prisoner, “We could have the Captain eliminated, severe your only source of energy, and have your body slowly eat itself inside out whether you escape or not. Your choice, Soldier.”

“What the _fu--”_ Steve began, but a glance behind him revealed the Soldier falling to his knees, hands behind his head in a clear sign of submission. He startled. Not in a million years was Steve expecting such an easy give.

“Well. I guess that settles it. Captain, a word outside, please?” His boss had an air of such confidence Steve was almost certain the man had predicted this outcome.

He bit his lip and hesitated for a second. The situation had de-escalated and a truce had been called, even though he did not especially care for Fury’s methods. The Soldier looked a little more _alive_ than before, judging by his skin tone, and considering he had not immediately resumed physical contact, Steve thought his best course of action would be to regroup and formulate a plan forging forward. “I’ll be back,” he told the Soldier, knowing that his words were probably meaningless in light of Fury’s manipulative actions, but feeling compelled to voice them all the same. In the end, he grabbed his shield and followed his ex-boss out.

They were going to exchange _more_ than a word, that was guaranteed. 

* * *

As soon as the metal doors locked behind them, Steve crowded Fury in his seat in the adjoining observation room. “What the _hell a_ re you planning?”

The man looked unimpressed at his attempt at physical intimidation. “Simple. We are going to use you to feed him, saving his life in the process. Then we'll train him and offer him a position among our ranks, just like we did the Widow. Which, speaking of, I don't think I ever told you how we actually managed to capture him. Widow raided an underground base rumored to host an international terrorist organisation just a few days ago, but instead found evidence of renewed Hydra activity. The Soldier was there, strapped to a chair, memories wiped clean and barely alive. We decided to bring him into our custody, heal him, and provide him with an employment that would allow him to atone for his past mistakes.”

“He’s _Hydra?!”_ Steve exploded. This was why he left S.H.I.E.L.D. This lack of transparency and the manipulative and distrustful nature of their leader grinded Steve’s gears in all the wrong ways. Tragically, this was also why he could not keep away too long. Hydra was _his_ business and S.H.I.E.L.D. was the only intelligence agency capable of withstanding them.

Fury ignored his outburst. “Just like the Widow _,_ the Winter Soldier was trained by Hydra to become a human weapon. Considering Agent Romanov only found the base after hearing his screams, we assumed the Soldier was becoming erratic. As it turned out we were correct, his body was self-destructing after charging off multiple people, probably as a side effect of being starved for so long. With how easily we managed to capture him, it was highly likely Hydra thought he could not be salvaged. Joke's on them, we have _you_ in our arsenal and we calculated that, given the properties of your serum, we had a good shot at saving him by giving him one single stable source of energy, instead of bits and pieces from different people. And, once he is healed, we can provide him a much better deal than his previous handlers. Imagine having another Widow on our team, or a double agent against Hydra. No matter how you see it, the Winter Soldier is too valuable to simply let go.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t defect back to Hydra as soon as he’s gained enough strength?” Steve protested.

Fury crossed his arms. “Well Captain, it turns out he does not even remember his name, and the only way Hydra kept him docile for so long was by scrambling his brain up once in a while. Right now, he is, in essence, a blank slate.”

This was all kinds of messed up. Steve had thought he’d seen enough of the horrors of war for a lifetime but clearly every deranged scientist out there aimed to outdo their predecessors. “Do we know anything about who he was before?”

“The Widow and Hawkeye are hunting for information as we speak. So far, all we know from what remained of their reconnaissance was that a high-level Hydra scientist made a huge discovery in the early 40s. They found out that starving someone to the brink of death sharpened their senses, strength, and reflexes for a brief period of time before their bodies caved. The Soldier’s serum modified his genetics to exponentially increase the speed at which his body burns calories, thus forcing him into a constant state of hunger. And by providing him only the minimum to survive, they’ve essentially created a biological weapon stronger and faster than what is humanly achievable. That’s what we could gather so far.”

Steve’s fist collided with the wall with enough force to dent the metal. “I’m going back inside.”

Fury shrugged. “The psychological evaluation starts tomorrow at 2pm. Make sure he’s still alive by then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, HUGE thank you to ZepysGirl, eternally_winding, shay081793, softboybucky, and others on the Stucky Discord for helping me with brainstorming this AU! Please go check their works out on AO3 when you have the time, they all have phenomenal minds!


	2. Novelty

Steve was not entirely sure what he expected when the metal doors of the confinement room locked behind him, but it certainly wasn’t _this._

“What are you doing?” he found himself blurting upon seeing the Winter Soldier crouched at the far end of the room, head bent down and legs tangled in the long chains that had previously kept him shackled. His hands were moving rapidly, weaving through the metal links in a rhythmic pattern.

Steve expected the silence that greeted him, but a very small, very petty part of him still felt mildly contrived at being so thoroughly ignored. The Winter Soldier was focused on his task with an intensity that would put surgeons to shame. Considering the assassin’s stellar reputation in committing homicide, Steve probably should have felt a lot more weary about the whole situation. The Soldier could easily be creating some sort of inconspicuous killing device and was biding his time before pouncing… a likely scenario starring Steve as the proverbial frog being gradually and unconsciously boiled to death. 

But Bucky had always said that he had no sense of self-preservation, and Bucky was mostly right most of the time, so curiosity won over and Steve slowly approached his fellow cellmate.

“Is… is that… a net?” he asked, or voiced, really, since he wasn’t expecting much of an answer at this point. He was closer now, halfway across the room, and he could see the Soldier pulling the metallic strands one over the other in a specific set of sequences, which seemed to result in what looked increasingly like a heavy, chunky fishing net. “Uh…” Steve gaped, intelligently.

The Soldier wove in silence until he ran out of chain, at which point he abruptly up with his finished project cradled in his arms. Steve tensed reflexively and took a step back because contrary to popular belief, he was not a complete dud and as much as he felt alienated in this new century, he was not actively searching to can in his chips. If he tightened his grip on his shield, it was because he was preparing for… whatever atrocities the Soldier intended to rain upon him with that unidentified metal device of doom.

The assassin walked to the middle of the room, underneath the same spot where he had been suspended above ground at Fury’s command. He looked up at the ceiling and Steve followed his gaze. There were several damaged hooks hanging above, which presumably held the chains in place when the Winter Soldier was still being restrained. Now, their structural integrity ranged anywhere from ‘miraculously still functional’ to ‘irrevocably shattered.’

The Soldier lifted his metal arm and stood on his tiptoes to pull at some of them. Then, he looped each of the four corners of the metal net into the hooks that withstood the stress test.

...and then he climbed up the makeshift hammock and made himself comfortable.

Steve was vaguely aware of his jaw hanging loose.

The Soldier stretched lazily on his perch, and finally deigned to acknowledge Steve’s existence with a brief glance thrown his way. His skin was still ashen, but the man was clearly no longer considering self-destruction.

Steve suddenly felt weak in the knees. He stumbled until his back hit the wall, then slid to the ground with an incredulous exhale, which immediately devolved into giggles. He clutched at his stomach when he could no longer contain the laughter at the sheer _eccentricity_ of it all. His shoulders were shaking with a force that could only be described as seismic, and the more he thought of what just transpired, the funnier it became. It probably did not help that he was still mildly sleep deprived. His stomach was hurting from the heaving.

The Soldier sat up in his hammock, observing him with the faintest trace of curiosity reflected in his eyes.

“ _God,_ what a _day_ _,”_ Steve gasped, once he had recovered enough to formulate words.

The echoes of his own breath were his only answer in the otherwise quiet room.

“Who even _are_ you,” he grinned, making eye contact with the man now. “You know what? I’m just glad one of us is making the best of their time here. God knows S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t exactly the warmest, most welcoming place around, so that’s a good attitude you got there, Soldier.”

The assassin kept staring at him in that mildly unnerving way of his.

Steve cleared his throat, feeling a bit disconcerted at the silence. “I heard from Fury that you… don’t remember much about your past. Or, well, you were forced to forget. Tortured until you forgot. Is it the same about your… speech?” he asked bluntly.

The Soldier averted his gaze.

“You don’t have to answer,” Steve quickly amended, then grinned sheepishly at the irony of his words. “It doesn’t sound like you signed up knowing everything about Hydra, from what Fury was telling me. I hope that is the case, because they’re bad news.” He looked the Soldier in the eye, but saw nothing in there that looked like affirmation or refutation. “To be honest, I can’t promise S.H.I.E.L.D. will treat you fairly, but there is no doubt in my mind they are better than your old handlers. The people at S.H.I.E.L.D. can be manipulative cads, and _believe me,_ I’ve had firsthand experience of that, but they won’t be using violent punitive methods to keep you in line. Don’t know if that says much about them at all, but hey, they're not Nazis... “ Steve trailed off.

After a few seconds of silence, the Soldier’s gaze had shifted from the general area of Steve’s face down to his hands. When he saw that Steve caught on, he quickly turned away again.

“Hungry?” Steve asked, tentatively. “Here, I can-- well, we shouldn’t, not for too long. I am no medical expert, but I know enough to understand that it really isn’t wise to overcharge after being starved for so long.”

He stood up slowly, making sure to project his movements, then stepped toward the metal bastardization of a hammock the Soldier had made. His shield lay forgotten on the ground by the wall. When he was about an arm’s length away, he removed his glove and extended his right hand, palm out, to the assassin. “You can, if you want. But you have to pace yourself, yeah?”

After a beat where he remained immobile, the Winter Soldier thrust his flesh hand out, halting a breadth away from touching him.

Steve noted that, his upper face notwithstanding, this was the only other area that bore the Soldier’s skin. He felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise in anticipation of charging through direct skin contact, especially now that he knew they were compatible. 

The tips of their fingers touched, the barest whisper of a caress.

“Oh,” Steve sighed. This was… new yet familiar. He hadn’t been wrong, earlier. The Soldier’s wavelength really did feel like Bucky’s. It was good… more than good, to finally get to experience this warmth again.

He couldn't recall when those lazy sunny mornings spent in bed with Bucky began to feel more like a figment of his imagination than actual memories. His best friend had become withdrawn in the army. Whereas he previously had no qualms about throwing an arm around all his buddies, bringing them close, or bumping their fists, he started actively avoiding contact by the time Steve got him back in '43.

Steve remembers working on a report in his quarters one night while the boys went out drinking. A little before midnight, he was interrupted by Dum Dum and Monty dumping a completely sauced Bucky in his arms. That was one of the rare times he indulged in wrapping himself like an octopus around his favorite partner in crime, greedy with the thought of monopolizing his time for the rest of the night. When Bucky had readily snuggled him back for the first time since he left, Steve had vowed to never forget the lingering smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cigarettes on his skin. For the rest of the night, Steve basked in the warm, familiar current gently thrumming through their bodies.

The Soldier’s finger slowly traced the inside of his palm and Steve felt a shiver run down his spine. He closed his eyes in an attempt to capture this fleeting sensation, even if it was but an imitation of the real deal. He wanted to bottle it up for use during those lonely nights he woke up with an intense longing for his old life in Brooklyn.

Too soon, Steve had to severe the connection. “T-that should be enough for now,” he said, breathless.

The Soldier obediently pulled his hand away.

“I, um,” he began, but memories of the past lingered in the air, and all of a sudden there were too many ghosts in the room to handle. The Soldier’s steel blue eyes were at once too familiar and completely foreign, and Steve felt himself choking up. “S-sorry, give me a minute,” he gritted out, sinking to the ground in the far corner of the room.

He told himself to breathe deeply. He had re-lived Bucky’s death countless times since waking up on the wrong side of the century. Each time he thought he might have spotted a familiar face in a crowd, or a dream had felt too tangible to be an illusion, he returned to this crippling grief, which he was _slowly dealing with._ This was nothing new. He had to make sure the Soldier was aware it was not his fault, it was just Steve’s brain making wrong associations.

“Sorry, I’m still… working through things. Personal things,” he murmured without looking up. “I had a regular charging partner, before the serum. I was this scrawny thing with enough allergies to fill up an encyclopedia, and he was my saving grace. He died in the war, and I thought I did too, but instead I woke up, in this world, disoriented and alone. And grieving.”

Steve sighed. “Sorry, back to the point I was trying to make: S.H.I.E.L.D. found me and initially, they gave me a purpose. They realized that the serum made me the only man capable of generating his own energy, indefinitely… so I was, essentially, this huge battery bank that could charge pretty much anyone from 0 to 100% in under a few minutes. At first I was thrilled I could help out with the Avengers Initiative, after all, I _knew_ how to be the perfect soldier and I was a _competent leader_ … but after a while I started noticing all the extra, unsolicited touches. A hand on my shoulder here, a fist bump there… human contact began to feel purposeful where they should have been disinterested.”

Steve laughed humorlessly and continued: “ _Gosh_ I would have given anything in the ‘30s to be like Bucky; strong and compatible and tactile. I thought I could get over it and start again here. The serum and this new century gave me a chance at living the way I always dreamed of… but it felt _wrong._ The more I charged with others, the more I became paranoid I wouldn’t remember Bucky’s unique warmth. I began to tense every time someone came near me, because I knew they found my wavelength pleasant, enough for them to pretend they liked _me_. In the end, I didn’t adjust well with everything happening at the same time, then got conditioned into thinking everyone around me only valued my presence for an ability I inherited from a _bottle_.”

The room fell still after Steve’s venting, and he couldn’t help being a little dejected at the Soldier’s lack of reaction, even if he hadn’t expected much to begin with.

“Sorry about that,” he whispered after a spell, forcing himself to sober up. “It’s just… your wavelength feels a lot like my old charging partner’s, so it’s dredged up some memories. Didn’t mean to saddle you with all that emotional baggage.”

The Soldier shifted a bit in his hammock, the chiming of the metal chains probably indicating he was listening.

“Enough about me, now. You will be interrogated tomorrow. They’ll probably give you a physical examination on top of that psychological evaluation. You sure you’re up to it, Soldier?”

No answer.

Steve sighed. “We might have to wait on the Widow and Hawkeye for that intel about your past. I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D. will release you if the tests turn out negative. You should rest, you will need energy because it _will_ be an ordeal. We can charge again after you wake up.”

At his words, the Winter Soldier lied down in his hammock, his haunting blue eyes disappearing behind tired lids.

Steve gave him one last look, then attempted to make himself comfortable on the ground. He was tired, but with the ghost of his Bucky's past lingering in the room, he had no doubt sleep was going to elude him again. 

* * *

Time was meaningless when you were confined in a metal room with stale ceiling lights and no windows. Steve was not sure how long he wallowed between the waters of wakefulness and fitful slumber, but at some point, movement from the hammock and fading flashbacks from the war suddenly got him jerking up.

“You hangin’ in there, Soldier?” he heard himself asking.

His cellmate hopped down the hammock just as the heavy doors began to grind open.

Steve grabbed his shield and made sure to position himself between the Soldier and whoever was seeking entry.

“Gentlemen,” Fury said, marching in with an entire squadron behind him. At the very back, just outside the confinement room proper, were a few medical personnel dressed in their white lab coats ushering in a large variety of electronic equipment.

Now that he knew what to search for, Steve could hear the Soldier’s breathing pick up behind him.

“With all due respect, sir, having a dozen guns to your head isn’t exactly conducive to performing accurate psychological evaluations,” Steve noted with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh huh, and we are _clearly_ interrogating your average Joe Smith right now,” his boss deadpanned.

“Is this an interrogation or an evaluation? I believe I was only informed about the latter.”

Fury actually rolled his eye at that. “We are conducting a physical examination first, Rogers. Hydra pulled him out of cryostasis, threw him onto the field, and then brought him back to have his brain blended up even as his body was shutting down. We don’t know when he was last provided supplemental nutrients and water. You _are_ aware that those are not optional to the human body, even with the serum?”

Steve risked a glance at the Soldier. He still looked overall impassive, but the downward shift of his brows betrayed his displeasure at the turn of events. Steve ached to reach out for him and restore some color to his cheeks.

“The SWAT team leaves. One doctor. I can act as collateral if the Soldier is uncooperative,” Steve compromised.

Fury crossed his arms. “What’s it to you, Captain? The two of you got chummy last night?”

“Shove it, Fury. There has been no indication of foul play on the Soldier’s part since you’ve captured him. Treat him with the respect he’s given you.”

His boss actually had the nerve to look amused. He waved his hand and the agents behind him hesitantly shuffled out the room. “Just this time, Captain, consider yourself humored.”

Bruce Banner was the only other person to step in the cell, bringing the total body count to four. Steve hadn’t recognized him in his lab coat.

“It’s been a while, Captain,” he said with his signature meek-but-genuine smile. "I know I'm not exactly a medical doctor per se, but I do have the most experience with studying the versatility of the serum so..." he mumbled, as if Steve had asked for his credentials.

Steve's thoughts were rather focused on Fury. There was _always_ a catch with Fury. Of course, he’d send in the Hulk in a Hulk-proofed room to examine the world’s most competent assassin. It certainly had to do with Dr. Banner's expertise on the serum, but Steve was positive it was, as always, about _security_. Why did Steve even think he could have things go his way?

However, judging by the sound of the Soldier’s breathing gradually slowing down, Steve had to acknowledge there were worse ways this could have played out. After all, Banner looked innocuous and harmless to those who weren’t aware of his alter-ego.

The doctor walked up to Steve and clapped him amicably on the shoulder. Steve anticipated it, yet still tensed up at the brief connection. “How’ve you been, Captain?”

“Well enough. And yourself?”

“Eh, same old, same old.” Bruce shrugged. He turned to the Winter Soldier with his most professional front. “Bruce Banner,” he declared with a little wave at the assassin.

Despite having enjoyed retirement, Steve found he also genuinely missed his friends. And there was something about Banner’s infinite capacity to trust that was especially attractive.

Unfortunately, the Winter Soldier did not return the gesture.

Banner awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “So, I’ve read reports of serum enhancements and artificially inflated metabolic rates and magical vacuum abilities…?”

When he was given no answer and the faint buzzing of the lights became infinitely amplified, Banner cleared his throat. “Why don’t we all sit down and make ourselves comfortable, this might take a while,” he suggested.

The physical dragged on. With no verbal cues to work with, Banner took the time to learn the Soldier’s body language. Unfortunately, even those were few and far in between. 

After a lot of questioning and non-intrusive prodding, Bruce sat back with a sigh. “There’s no external sign suggesting that his body rejected Steve's charge, and it looks like things are relatively stable now, at least compared to his previous state of distress from what I was told," he declared. Then, he turned to address his patient with an apologetic look. "But I still need a blood sample to evaluate your nutritional levels, I gotta make sure there are no adverse effects to this arrangement in the long-term. But, well, here, for now, you can just put your hand on this thing for a second. It doesn’t hurt and it won’t take long, but it'll give us a general idea of your current state of health." He pulled a small sensor with an LED screen from his breast pocket, and grumbled: "But we _will_ need a more in-depth checkup at some point, and I _will_ need to touch you to perform some of them. We'll worry about that after you've stabilized a bit, though. Can't have you touch eight million people when you're still recovering from severe malnutrition. Here, just...” he gestured the Soldier toward the device.

When there was no movement, Banner looked to Steve. “Hey Captain? Lend me your hand for a sec?”

Steve took off his gloves and thrust forth the requested appendage. Bruce clamped the little machine on his index, waited until it beeped, then took it off. He looked at the screen and blinked. “Uh…,” he began, then abruptly cut himself off. “Well... anyway, as you can see,” he waved the gadget in front of the Soldier, “it doesn’t hurt at all.”

The assassin hesitantly extended his flesh hand.

Bruce very delicately tacked the device on his finger the same way he did with Steve. Eventually, it beeped.

“Huh,” Banner mused, looking at the screen.

“What?” Steve asked at the same time as Fury.

“Well, first of all, both of you need water and vitamin D. Immediately.”

“That’s it?” said Fury.

“I’m not thirsty,” said Steve, immediately after.

“It’s most definitely _not_ all, but we can slowly work on the rest,” Bruce said patiently. “And yes, you are thirsty Captain, because I said so. Water first. How are either of you still up and kicking?” he muttered to himself as stood up to get the IV drips.

Steve was no stranger to nutrient deficiencies from his childhood, and he _hated_ the drips with vehemence. He thought he had parted with that life after receiving the serum. How did he end up _back here?_

He was about to protest when Bruce gave him _a look_ over his shoulder. Steve quickly sobered up. The Winter Soldier had just consented to being experimented on after Steve demonstrated that the procedure was safe. Was this a ploy on Banner’s part to get him to cooperate?

Well... in for a penny, in for a dime, he guessed. He could only resign himself to getting dripped like it was the winter of ‘34. He rolled up his sleeve and sat close to the Soldier, who was looking between him and Banner with a mix of mild disgust and deep resignation.

“Me too, buddy, me too...” Steve groaned.

The tactic worked. The Soldier’s skin was visibly better after the medical intervention, and Bruce looked like he would gladly pat himself on the back if he could.

Fury, meanwhile, appeared to be bored out of his mind. “So, he’s physically stable?”

“Hah, no,” Banner snorted, finally breaking free of his professionalism. “The drips will probably be necessary for the coming weeks. Or months, depending on his body’s chosen path to recovery. I’m not sure exactly what type of enhancement he has, or _how_ exactly it is even possible for him to sap energy in another person's body at all, not without an in-depth and invasive diagnostic. But right now, his focus should be to adjust to storing more than the minimum amount of calorie for survival. We can slowly work up to a blood sample, doesn’t have to be done immediately. You two compatible enough?” he asked the Soldier, gesturing at Steve.

The assassin glanced Steve's way. Banner took that as an affirmative. “Given that nothing adverse has happened yet, you should keep charging with Steve and Steve only, for no more than a few minutes at a time, a few times a day. You’ll need to slowly work your way back up before your body can accept any physical contact from other people, _especially_ if your body previously rejected such an arrangement. Our charging speeds slow as we approach our maximum storage capacity, so, in theory, if you are already full, you might be able to start touching others without immediately sucking them dry. Although that's a big maybe, since, well, I know the serum can be extremely versatile. Now that I think about it though, that tac gear and that arm were probably devised to minimize naked contact with others so you don't accidentally incapacitate your allies on the battlefield.”

There was no indication of memorization on the Soldier’s part, but Steve absorbed the instructions like a sponge.

“Anyway, with these limited resources, this is about what I can glean for now. I suggest they be allowed to live in proximity somewhere close to a medical facility for the upcoming months. I believe Tony’s still got your floor, Cap--”

“We’ll decide after the psychological evaluation,” Fury cut in.

Bruce gave Steve a rueful smile. “Well, I’ll hopefully see you two around?” he asked with a parting pat to Steve’s shoulder. 

He showed himself to the door.

* * *

The psychological evaluation, ironically, went by incredibly fast compared to the physical. The conclusion was pretty elementary: no signs of erratic behavior; clear loss of speech patterns and long-term memories; retention of cognitive abilities; and full possession of motor functions. Recovery of memories was not ascertained, even with improvement of physical health. It was nothing Steve couldn’t have gathered himself.

After a dramatic shouting match with Fury, it was decided that they would both be allowed out of confinement. In exchange, they would be living in Stark Tower under surveillance.

Steve mourned the abrupt end to his retirement and seclusion, but watching the Soldier delicately cradle his metal hammock, the only possession he had to his name, Steve felt a fire reignite in his gut. His heart filled with determination to do right by this mysterious man. A path forward opened up to him: now that he had another to care for, his life was given a clear direction for the next few months.

Side by side, they walked out of their prison cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout out to eyres and poloniumcat and a bunch of other amazing people over on the Stucky discord group for pitching in about the intricate science behind human biology! Go check them and their works out!
> 
> Also, I'd like to apologize for a pretty angsty chapter. I promise the next one will feature two new MCU characters and a lot more comfort than hurt! Drop a message down below if you have the time, and I'll see you all again in the next one. :)


	3. Alias

Sunday morning started with a bang. Which was followed by a crash so loud the vibrations reverberated through the floorboards and eventually wormed their way into the springs of Steve’s mattress. Then came the melodic echoes of leather being ripped apart, the dulcet tones of fist fighting, and the sultry baritone of a man out of breath. The musical ensemble was accompanied by the harmonious cacophony of shattering glass and, after a dramatic pause, it ended with the faint and rhythmic beats of human wheezing. 

Steve was too old for this.

He pushed open the door to his bedroom, conscious that he was adorned only of his soft blue pajama pants and equipped with nothing but the horrible aftertaste of morning breath. 

“What is going on?!” he bellowed upon seeing the destroyed state of their living room and absolutely nothing else due to the residual white couch-stuffing floating around. Upon walking a little closer to the carnage, he realized that two figures were lying on the floor.

Hawkeye, or rather, Clint Barton in light of his t-shirt-and-jeans getup, was flattened to the ground on his back, his face rapidly turning tomato red from being held in a chokehold, courtesy of the Soldier’s metal arm. He had the nerve of attempting a smile and a friendly wave in Steve’s direction.

Steve very briefly considered going back to bed.

But no, he was not going to be responsible for assisted homicide or else Sarah Rogers will have some strong words with him once he found her again. So he sighed heavily, the way his mother used to do when he came back home with bruises where there shouldn’t be, and gently laid a hand on the Winter Soldier’s shoulder. “Please let him go, or else the poor chap’s gonna check out.”

A very egotistical part of Steve was pleased to note the small shiver that ran through the Soldier’s body at his touch. They hadn’t charged in... Steve looked at the clock, realized it lay in pieces on the ground, and wow, wasn’t that _déjà-vu_? It was like he was cursed to break every time-keeping mechanism he owned, a man frozen in time.

After a second of hesitation, during which Steve was pretty sure Clint’s complexion turned blue, the Soldier finally chose to spare his victim. The faint whirring sound of his metal muscles shifting against each other blessedly filled the room.

“-hhhhhh---” Clint wheezed, “hhhhhi -hheeve,” he managed, before doubling over to cough out a lung.

The Soldier looked deeply unimpressed from his position on top of his victim.

Steve gazed toward the entrance, then their tiny kitchen. Seeing as Tony had designed his entire building according to an “open plan” structure, the area between the living room and the kitchen was wide open, with no walls to section them off. Above this transitioning area hung the Soldier’s Large Ass Metal Bed (affectionately dubbed the LAMB in Steve’s mind) and facing it were huge floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a piece of glass that could be opened toward the kitchen, and judging from the gentle breeze that blew into the room, Steve had a hunch about what happened mere minutes ago.

“Hhhh-I snuhckhhh in,” Clint provided unhelpfully, still a little wheezy.

“Gathered as much,” Steve nodded. “Horrible idea.”

Clint attempted a shrug, but the movement immediately made the Soldier’s thighs tense around his waist. 

It was not that Clint didn’t know of the Soldier’s presence here. It also couldn’t have been that he wasn’t informed of the Soldier’s skills. Yet here Clint was nonetheless, clad in only his civvies, acting as if sneaking around the window the Soldier was clearly monitoring, even in his sleep, was a bright idea. If there was _anyone_ with less self-preservation than himself, it was Clint, and Steve feels terrible, terrible regret that Bucky will never meet the guy so Steve will never be able to rub it in his face.

Eventually, Clint pushed himself up into a sitting position, which had the unforeseen consequence of aligning his chest with the Winter Soldier’s, who hasn’t budged from his position on Clint’s lap. “Nice moves, man,” Clint said awkwardly, his face mere inches away from the assassin’s.

The Soldier stared into his soul right back.

“I… don’t suppose you’d want to let me go?”

Silence.

God, Steve was getting secondhand embarrassment just looking at them. It was like two species of birds from opposite sides of the planet attempting to communicate through interpretative dance. It was high time to change the subject. “How was the mission? Did you find anything about his past?”

“Nope, all destroyed before we even got there,” Clint said sadly. “With the Winter Soldier going AWOL, the remaining active branches of Hydra destroyed all their data and vanished into thin air. We’ll have to either wait until more intel magically surfaces, or one of them messes up and leaves a trace.”

It was only at the unfortunate news that Steve realized he had been anticipating learning a lot more about his roommate. “So… nothing at all?”

Clint was thoughtful for a second. “Well, he's touching me and I'm still alive so... either he can turn off his ability to vacuum up other people's calories, or you're doing a real good job at filling him up. In the most innocent sense of the word."

Steve, despite himself, blushed. "That's it?"

Clint bit his lip, then added: "Oh, also, Natasha realized that… it’s highly likely he’s the same Winter Soldier that trained her when she was in the Red Room. Which, I guess, means that he’s maybe American, probably.”

“Maybe? Probably?”

“Well, from what I know, her memories of her earlier days are a bit fuzzy. She wasn’t exactly treated like a princess there, y’know?. She said, and I quote: “the experience was not always pleasant,” which, understatement of the century in my honest opinion, but I digress. So, long story short, she’s making an educated guess based on that one oldass Hydra goon we managed to interrogate in that shithole. And then the guy, I kid you not, immediately dropped dead from a heart attack. We were careful about the whole ‘cyanide pills in mouth’ shebang but no, this dude just up and died on command.” Clint gesticulated wildly, to punctuate the sheer craziness that was the mission. “Anyway, he was our only source of intel before he, y'know, spontaneously hit the curb, and the only thing we could be certain of was that there were multiple Winter Soldiers, or at least, they tried to replicate the experiment, but our buddy here was the only successful case. Hence why it’s highly likely he was once Natasha’s mentor.”

“Oh,” Steve said, thinking about whether the Soldier’s fighting style resembled Natasha’s. It dawned on him that he had never actually witnessed the man fight and, in hindsight, it made very little sense that Fury let them go without somehow testing the Soldier’s combat skills… yet here they were. 

They’d spent the rest of their Thursday night after being released settling down on Steve’s floor at the tower, both too exhausted to acknowledge the awkwardness of their relationship. Friday brought the whole thing to the surface, and they engaged in the embarrassing ritual of shuffling-around-each-other-in-a-confined-space-while-also-occasionally-touching-at-regular-intervals like a pair of poorly-written newlyweds in the dime novels of Steve’s youth. Thankfully, they came to a tentative truce on Saturday about eating schedules and sleeping arrangements and casual touch. But even if they were essentially put in house arrest by S.H.I.E.L.D., the more Steve thought about it, the less sense it made that Fury would so easily allow the Soldier the freedom to roam around the same space that housed all the Avengers. After all, this was where everyone was most likely to let their guards down...

“Earth to Captain America,” Clint singsonged, bringing Steve back to the present. “I just tried sign language with him, and I don’t think it rung a bell, so uh, could you tell him to ease his thighs and let me go so I can, y’know, move?”

Steve blinked. “I’m not his… handler. You don’t need to talk over him.”

“No, I _know,_ and I _tried,_ but he’s just giving me his murder stare, and it’s kinda distracting, he’s got these pretty blue eyes. I think I may have given him a bad first impression? I might have startled him when I opened the window from outside... and I figured he’d listen to you. Somehow. I think he trusts you? So. Please help? My legs are going numb.”

“Why can’t you just-- alright, okay, _fine_. Soldier, could you please get off of Clint? I _know_ you can still transfer energy even through that thick tac gear, even if you're not actively trying to suck him dry, and we really should limit physical contact with others until your next checkup with Dr. Banner.”

The Soldier considered his words for a heavy second. Then he extended his flesh hand.

Steve found he could immediately read the meaning behind the gesture. “Yes, we can charge in return. But you need to let go of Clint first.”

The Soldier stood up and tangled their fingers.

Steve breathed in deeply at the warm current that traveled through him. Each time, he is reminded of home, and each time he is a little more certain he'd never get tired of this.

“Wow, that’s actually really cute but also mildly unhealthy,” Clint commented, massaging his legs in an attempt to reawaken them.

“He’s also an internationally-wanted assassin with amnesia because he was tortured by an underground nazi organization. What else is d’ya think’s mildly unhealthy, champ?” Steve could not help but bite back. It was too early, he had had too little sleep, and his mouth still stank because the serum was worthless in all the areas that mattered; he was not going to debate how normal or not it was that the Soldier essentially relied on him for survival.

“Oh no, Steve,” Clint corrected with a big grin, not offended in the slightest. “You’ve got it backwards. I was just saying he’s got you wrapped around his fingers, and it’s only been two days, is all.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

Clint gestured in the general direction of his naked torso and their joint hands. “Well, you’re like, charging with him half-naked despite knowing he could probably murder you in your sleep if he wanted.”

Steve thought about it for a second. He looked at the LAMB hanging above his living room, which should have been an eyesore but had somehow already blended its way into the _décor_. He remembered dismembering the metal leg of a chair to create hooks the second the Soldier had started looking at their ceiling, in search for the perfect nesting spot. Then he had fetched a bunch of blankets and pillows so the Soldier wouldn’t have to rest on cold, hard metal. Then--

Alright, okay, he was probably just a little compromised.

“Huh,” he exhaled, not entirely sure how he should feel about this revelation.

“Yup,” Clint said, popping his p, and looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

After a beat, Steve declared he was going to go change and freshen up because he had no witty comebacks to that, and he was not so combative as to not know when he had lost an argument.

The Soldier would not let go of his hand, so Steve resigned himself to blushing and hiding it by beating a hasty retreat to his room with the assassin tailing him.

He could sense Clint’s smirk even with his back turned.

* * *

“Anyway. Are we gonna keep calling him Soldier? Sounds awfully impersonal to me,” Clint declared from the couch once Steve had returned to the living room a little more presentable than before. He noticed that his guest hadn’t really cleaned up the mess of broken lamps and coffee tables and clocks and cushions, he’d just shoved enough debris off the couch to sit there without being poked in the ass.

“I tried asking yesterday, but,” Steve shrugged. “He wasn’t too keen on the ones I proposed.”

“Oh no _,_ dare I ask?” Clint shuddered.

The Soldier squeezed Steve’s hand, as if to corroborate Clint’s point.

Steve was _offended._ “What’s wrong with Freddie or Ronald?”

Clint moaned. “ _Everything,_ Cap, literally _everything.”_

“They were perfectly acceptable na-- you know what? How about _you_ come up with something better?” he said petulantly.

Clint pulled out his phone. “Aaand this is why we live off the internet, and it’s also why my generation is better than yours.”

Steve’s heard it all before. “Less yappin’, more searchin’,” he pressed.

“Well, I have here… Robert, James, John, Jeremy, Sebastian, William, Richar--no, _definitely not_ Richard…”

“What’s wrong with--”

“Dick means penis nowadays.”

“.......right.”

“George, Thomas, Liam, Noah, Christopher, Chad, Karim… slap me if you hear something you like, Henry, Logan, Tom, Ethan, Rory, Alex-- wait, maybe I’m going about this all wrong.” Clint gasped, then squinted at the Soldier. “Marie...? Hayley? Elizabeth? Catherine? Okay, how about Spencer? Skylar? Taylor? Avery? Jordan? Quinn? Sawy--”

They were interrupted by the ringing of a bell.

“Oh, I think that’s Natasha calling,” Clint said, pointing to the flashing gadget on the kitchen counter. “Y’know how to operate the hologram, yeah? I remember Tony showed you when you first moved in.”

“Sure,” Steve agreed, pulling the Soldier along by their joint fingers and pressing the green button to accept the call.

“Boys,” hologram-Natasha said once the communication went through. She had her crimson hair up in a bun and looked mildly geared up. It was probably downtime in the middle of a mission for her.

“Natasha,” Steve and Clint greeted in harmony.

“Good to hear both of you are still alive. Would be even better if I could see you,” she hummed.

“Right, uh…” Steve said, fumbling to press the little camera icon on the gadget. “Better?”

“Mhm…” she began, but trailed off. It was so rare for Natasha to be caught off-guard that Steve immediately stood up straight.

“Is there anything wrong? Do you need--”

“No,” she replied. “I’m safe. I was just not expecting the Winter Soldier to be… roaming about with you.” She gestured to where Steve’s hand was still tightly clasped in the assassin’s.

Steve felt himself blushing a little, for no reason at all. It was perfectly normal to charge in front of others, and this was exactly the job he was called back for, but Natasha’s raised eyebrow made it seem as if the gesture were completely out of place.

“We were actually brainstorming for a name to call him,” Clint provided, filling in the silence. “His memory is still…” he waved his hand a little, “ _wonky_.”

“He’s James,” Natasha declared.

Steve frowned. He… for some reason was not entirely enthused with that. “No, we already have a James on the team.”

“Wait, we do?” said Clint.

“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes,” Steve answered, a little perplexed.

“Wait, Colonel Rhodey’s first name is James?!” Clint gasped.

“How did you not know this?” Steve asked incredulously. He thought _he_ had been the one to join the team completely blind.

“ _Nobody_ calls him James. He’s… he commands too much respect to even have a first name!”

“Well, it doesn’t change the fact that his name is, indeed, James. Which means having another one on the team would just be confusing,” Steve defended adamantly.

“To be fair though, I have like, eight other civilian friends named James, and we’ve all got a way to differentiate them,” Clint retorted.

“He was introduced as James to the Widows,” Natasha interrupted, referring to the Winter Soldier. “But it was likely an alias or an outright fabrication. Hydra kept much of their activity secret from even the Red Room at the time, and they were especially careful about curating an image of mystery for their greatest asset. We were discouraged to treat him as a mortal. He was always presented as this unattainable goal, an unstoppable force of nature.”

The Soldier showed no signs of recognition at the name though, not any more than all the other options they’d tried so far.

Steve did not like James on the Soldier. His heart was full of another James he was not yet ready to replace with what could be the best and worst approximation of him.

“Do you agree to me calling you James?” Natasha asked gravely.

The Soldier stared at her for a long time, then his shoulders moved minutely, the echo of a shrug. Finally, he pulled his hand away from Steve’s and climbed up the LAMB, his back to the hologram.

Steve hadn’t realized he had been clinging and squeezing his hand during the whole exchange and felt his cheeks heat up at the thought of having caused the Soldier discomfort.

“Well, I’m liking the ring of it,” declared Clint after an awkward beat. “We could also make it Jack, for, y’know, Jack Frost. Make apparent the _Winter_ part of the Soldier?”

“No,” Natasha and Steve growled in unison.

“Okay, James it is.”

* * *

Natasha hung up after relaying some instructions from Fury about not leaving the Tower unless necessary, and consenting to being tailed by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents when they did step out. Steve tried not to be resentful about it all, considering it was the compromise he had to make to get the Soldier out of that prison cell, but it was difficult to _enjoy_ being under constant surveillance. He couldn’t turn off the security cameras and the motion and heat sensors in his own room, and since Tony was out on a mission, it was likely Steve wouldn’t be able to negotiate his way out of feeling like a fish in a glass bowl until the owner of the building came back.

Clint squeezed his shoulder in sympathy, then winced and apologized when Steve immediately went rigid.

“Right, still not big on physical contact,” Clint commented.

“Not really,” Steve sighed.

“But you’re fine with James touching you.”

“He’s different… he _needs_ me,” Steve mumbled, a little lost and not wanting to scrutinize the matter further. 

Clint dropped the subject, thankfully. “Yeah, fair enough. ‘Nyway, I’m gonna head out for now. I’ll be back tomorrow with ‘Tasha to help you both get some, uh, unbroken furniture in the room.”

“Sure. I’ll see you around, Clint.”

That night, Steve laid awake in bed, the revelations of the day finally catching up to him. A part of him already knew why he had such difficulty keeping the Soldier at arms length. After all, he had lived most of his life joined at the hip with his best friend. He had spent more nights having someone in his bed to cuddle with than otherwise. Part of the reason Steve found it hard to adjust to this new century was precisely because none of his new friends could fill up the colossal Bucky-shaped cavity in his heart, not when they all had their own lives to live and countless missions to run. He didn’t think any of them would be able to tolerate having him around all day every day the way Bucky had.

He hated that, in comparison, the Soldier’s silence and constant need to be near him felt… natural, in some twisted way. Having someone share his personal space dispelled some of the loneliness he felt, and knowing that someone else was just as lost and alone as he was in this world was comforting, even if Steve didn’t particularly enjoy this aspect of his personality. Of course, it helped that the Soldier’s wavelength was so sweet to the touch.

Steve sat up abruptly, appalled by his thoughts. He needed to move, to physically exhaust himself if he was going to stop monologuing in his head. As it was, he had too much energy to find rest.

He quickly changed into his workout clothes and tiptoed his way out of the room. He briefly considered letting his roommate know of his absence but… since they were both heavily monitored no matter where they went in the tower, he ultimately weighed against disturbing the Soldier.

Once in the elevator, Steve was relieved he still had access to the gym on the 23rd floor. 

What he did not expect was to find the boxing room already in use. He could hear the sound of fists colliding with a heavy sandbag, punctuated by loud but controlled breathing.

He pushed the door open.

The inside was… a carnage reminiscent of the living room he had just left. The floor was littered with sand and other punching bag fillers, rolls of bloodied handtape, and broken shards of metal. Scattered across the room were big hollow plastic sacks, which on a better day might have serviced as a punching bag proper. The room smelled of sweat and exertion and destruction and pent up fury, the likes Steve was very familiar with from his early days after being thawed.

In the middle of the room stood Natasha, panting and frowning at Steve.

“I thought you were away,” he blurted, confused.

“I never claimed I was away,” she bit back, venom in her voice where it usually was so collected. She threw a few vicious punches at the one last bag that was still intact, causing the chain links that held it aloft to scream in agony. Her movements were swift and deadly, the way they usually were, but underlying it all was a brutality Steve did not even know she was capable of.

When after a minute he was still there, staring at her with feelings of fascination and agitation and confusion warring in his heart, she stopped dead in her tracks, the room suddenly back to being eerily silent.

“Do you mind? I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she snarled, with more force than what Steve was used to. The expression of pure rage clearly displayed on her face destabilized Steve, who was only accustomed to her impassive, cool-and-collected front. 

“Will you be alright?”

“Yes,” she growled. Then, as if to drive the point home, she sent her signature smile his way. It was a poor imitation of the Natasha he knew when paired with backdrop of her disheveled hair, glistening skin, and sweaty shirt.

Steve was left with the cold realization that… Natasha had always used that smile as a front. She constantly seemed to be unflappable, at least in front of him, and Steve, the idiot that he was, had simply dismissed it as part of her personality.

“Leave, or I won’t be responsible for your sustained injuries,” she warned, winding up for a fight.

“Alright. You know where to find me if you need me.”

Steve shut the door behind him, but couldn’t help lingering a little longer, listening to the chaotic melody of Natasha’s anger. It was sobering to hear her roars and pants as she rained blow after blow on demons only visible to her, a lone Widow, carefully hidden away, fighting to make it through the darkness of the night.

Eventually, Steve sneaked back up to his floor with a lot more on his mind than when he had left. He wondered if the Soldier had noticed--

No, he had to stop referring to him as the Soldier. It felt… dehumanizing.

“James?” he tried, tentatively.

He was answered with the telltale sound of metal links gently clanging against each other. Steve walked to the LAMB to find his roommate sitting in it cross legged.

“Hey, sorry to wake you up,” Steve whispered. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d go to the gym to blow off some steam, but it was occupied.”

James held out his metal hand palm up and thrust it toward Steve.

“Uh,” he said, laying his fingers on top of his roommate’s out of pure reflex.

In one swift movement, he was pulled up the metal hammock, laying across it on his stomach with his feet dangling in the air. When Steve tried to sit up, he caused the entire structure to rattle so loudly he was afraid the hooks on the ceiling wouldn’t hold under their combined weight.

But after a second, he found a comfortable sitting position, and the metal links stubbornly held their ground. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with his roommate, and a very faint thrum of energy circulated between their bodies.

“Hey,” Steve murmured again, feeling awkward at their proximity but also enjoying the warmth of another body pressed to his side.

James leaned against him, as if searching for that same comfort.

Steve smiled, glad to confirm that yes, the pleasure was mutual. He fluffed up the pillows and gently nudged his partner toward them. “You can lie down, I’ll stay here until we finish charging, promise.”

James did as told, but he pulled Steve down by the hem of his shirt, unrelenting until they were both spread out horizontally on the LAMB. The Soldier then let out a small breath, muffled by the black mask he never took off, and burrowed his face in the crook of Steve’s neck.

The jagged edges of the mask poked Steve in the collarbone and the Soldier’s long hair tickled his nose, but he found that it was a tradeoff he would take any day in exchange for the sheer comfort and peacefulness that came with having someone compatible pressed up against him. He knew they shouldn’t stay like this too long, lest the Soldier overcharged, but after so many nights spent alone he couldn’t help wanting to prolong this experience just a little.

Steve yawned and eventually lost track of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, huge thank you to Aromo, for always sticking by this fic and giving me feedback!
> 
> Speaking of which, I'm searching for a beta reader because I keep re-reading every sentence for mistakes and it's eating up a LOT of editing time. Please let me know if you are interested, even if it's just to provide another pair of eyes?
> 
> Next up: We learn a little more about Natasha's past and also the gang goes shopping.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Aanon here. New to this fandom, kinda.
> 
> Came up with this universe at 1am after being fed up with the oversexualization of touch in media. So I decided to imagine a world where certain forms of human contact are not only normalized, but necessary for survival, and this was the result. PM me if you want to scream about this universe, or Bucky and Steve, or both!


End file.
